


Absurd.

by Blowfish_Diaries



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Bottoming from the Top, Draco Malfoy in Lingerie, Established Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Explicit Sexual Content, H/D Sex Fair 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kink Exploration, M/M, Office Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Smut, Snarky Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blowfish_Diaries/pseuds/Blowfish_Diaries
Summary: When Draco discovers a kink that Harry's been hiding from him, he has no choice but to explore said kink, right? Right.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 516
Collections: 2020 Harry/Draco Sex Fair





	Absurd.

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[152](https://docs.google.com/document/d/12_5f6f0xUXhqtWfMlhXRyA8kDC3KGShN3oa_IOD12DY/edit#).
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful, brilliant beta, RetiredUnicorn. You, my dear, are a treasure. 
> 
> And a big thanks to the Mods! xx

Love is _absurd_.

It is neither gentle nor kind. It absolutely does boast (me), and envy (him), and insist on its own way (both of us). I have to assume that Saint Paul was coming from a place of woeful inexperience when he expressed those sentiments to the Corinthians.

Well, that, and Saint Paul had never been in love with, nevermind married to, Harry Potter. Plato was much more on the nose when he decried love to be a serious mental disease.

(And yes, of course I’m familiar with the Judeo-Christian worldview. I’m a wizard, not an illiterate.)

Loving Harry Potter is an exercise in self-restraint. Some days I want to throw the half-filled mugs of tepid tea he leaves all over the house at his giant head; I want to burn the old Chudley Cannons shirt that hasn’t fit him since Hogwarts that he continues to wear; I want to strangle him with the wet towels he leaves on the bathroom floor. I want to banish him to an island populated by a thousand Harry Potters so he is forced to experience the utter frustration of what it’s like to live with him.

And then, of course, I want to recall him from said mythical Harry Potter-filled island so that he can wrap his surprisingly muscular thighs around my waist and mutter filthy encouragement in my ear as I fuck him into the mattress. I _never_ want to re-learn what it’s like to try and sleep without his heavy arm thrown over my waist or without his snores interrupting my REM cycle.

I am aware that I am completely addicted to this man, and it is _absurd_.

So absurd, in fact, that I’m sitting here in his office at the Ministry at half seven on a weeknight, waiting for Harry to return from a crime scene, wrapped in his invisibility cloak lest Weasley stumble in and see something he can’t unsee.

This whole thing began, as most ill-conceived and/or ridiculous events in my life do, with Pansy Parkinson. A few weeks ago, I attended her “divorce ‘do”—picture a hen party with just as much alcohol but with the added ritual burning of a wedding dress and some minor curses directed towards her now ex husband and his 20-year-old slag of a secretary—and had (apparently) a wonderful time.

(I may not remember much of the evening, but I was assured by her house elf that I conducted myself in a manner befitting a Malfoy. Which, looking back, is perhaps not what one wants to hear after an evening of debauchery.)

As is her wont, Pansy sent us all home with ridiculously expensive gift bags full of sex toys, Belgian chocolates, and lingerie (or, what Pansy calls “the ingredients for a casual night in”). The next morning, I left said gift bag in my and Harry’s bedroom before absconding into the en suite to scrub off my sins in a bathtub full of lavender and mint.

I emerged from the bathroom to find my husband holding the pair of lacy knickers Pansy had gifted to me in his hands, with a flush on his cheeks and neck, and an erection tenting his threadbare joggers.

“Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

He jumped in surprise at the sound of my voice and dropped the knickers like they were on fire. “Draco! Er, hello, love! How was the party?” He sat on the bed and crossed his legs as if he were trying to hide his obvious arousal from me.

I cocked my head, trying to suss out what was causing him to act like a 12-year old who’d been caught wanking. It wasn’t like Harry to be prudish about sex—at least, not since I’d blasted away those walls a decade ago with my refusal to accept his nervous stammers when discussing our sex life—but it seemed that this particular lingerie-related kink was something that made Harry uncomfortable.

“It was, as you can imagine, an absolute shitshow. Blaise lit the Parkinson tapestry on fire, Millicent fire-called her ex, and Luna was dancing starkers under the light of the moon, all before ten. The night only went downhill from there.”

Harry had laughed, shifting around on the bed a bit. I imagined that his erection was causing him some discomfort, so I made my way towards him and picked up the discarded panties from where Harry’d dropped them.

“Want me to put these on for you?” I asked, holding them up in front of my pelvis, trying to gauge if they’d fit. They were a black, delicate lace, and were clearly made for men as they had more fabric at the front to accommodate a cock.

“What? No!” Harry said quickly. I watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and he worried at the skin around his left thumb nail, one of his more obvious tells that he’s lying.

“O-o-k,” I replied, stretching out the word to imply that I didn’t believe him. I decided not to push it, though, as I was still hungover and was honestly more interested in Harry making me a full English than trying to unravel whatever neurosis he had around lingerie. “How about you make yourself useful then, and hurry down to the kitchen to make your horribly hungover husband some brekkie, hm?”

Harry smiled, looking equal parts relieved and disappointed. “I suppose I owe you from the aftermath of George’s birthday last month.”

I shuddered, remembering the smell of Harry when he’d come crashing in at four thirty in the morning. “You really, really do.”

If Harry knows anything about me, he knows that I _never_ forget anything. I remember every insult he threw at me from our Hogwarts days, and can recite with “horrifying accuracy” every single time that he’s forgotten to banish the trash or water the flowers or has made up some inane excuse to get out of tea with my mother.

But that also means that I remember all of the experiences and gestures and gifts that we’ve shared. The first time that Harry smiled at me, our first kiss; how many different pet-names he’s bestowed upon me.

Thus, this little project that I undertook following the discovery of Harry’s kink should come as no surprise to him. I suppose it might be a bit shocking to come in from conducting his Serious Auror Business (which undoubtedly involved plentiful angry-Harry eyebrows frowning at the rookies) on a random Tuesday night to find one’s husband mostly naked and draped across one’s desk. But one does what one must to keep a marriage’s fire alive.

I shift in Harry’s desk chair, trying to regain feeling in my arse. I don’t understand how he sits in this wooden monstrosity for hours on end. Not that I’m going to get comfortable, given what I’m wearing. This isn’t _my_ kink, but I have to say that, despite the relative discomfort, I do feel extraordinarily sexy and somehow powerful.

When I finally hear his voice in the corridor, I throw off the cloak and quickly arrange myself so that I’m sitting in his chair with my feet kicked up onto his desk, legs crossed at the ankles. I spare a moment to place the photo of the entire Weasley clan face down. They don’t need to watch what’s about to happen. (I turn the one of us on our wedding day to give photo Harry-and-Draco a _better_ view.)

The bespoke lingerie that I invested in looks amazing (and took an absolute age to get on correctly—how Muggles manage this many buckles and straps without magic is beyond my comprehension), and I try to hold my pose and school my features into my best “come hither” expression. I hold my breath as the doorknob turns and Harry enters.

His eyes widen and his jaw actually drops as if we’re in some sort of cartoon, and he just stands there, staring.

“Close the door, Harry,” I say to him, trying to keep my voice low.

He steps further into the room and pushes the door shut with his foot. His Auror robes are off and in his arms, so he’s down to a pair of dark trousers and a white oxford shirt. His tie is askew, his hair is (obviously) an absolute mess, he needs a shave, and he looks absolutely _perfect_.

The chair creaks ominously, so I change tactics. While Harry is still gaping at me, I walk slowly (and carefully) to the front of the desk and lean back, letting Harry take all of me in.

So here I am, on an otherwise inconsequential and boring Tuesday night at the end of March, standing in front of my husband dressed to the nines in lacy lingerie.

 _Absurd_.

I invested in a black ensemble, as I figured that it would present the most stark contrast with my pale skin. The silk, thigh-high stockings are topped with lace and have a seam running up the back of the legs, which the woman at the shop assured me would make my legs look longer and leaner than they already are. I have to admit that the stilettos that I’ve managed to jam my feet into accentuate my calf muscles nicely (although I’ll be lucky if my toes aren’t currently bleeding). I chose the garter belt that sits around my hips because of the small bows on the clips that hold up the stockings—they seemed to add something almost demure to the otherwise completely wanton display. And after careful consideration, I decided to wear the lace panties that Pansy had gifted me, as they seemed to have quite the effect on Harry.

The man himself is as still as a statue.

“Harry?” I ask, suddenly worried that I’ve gotten this all completely, horribly wrong. “Are… is this OK?”

Harry’s green eyes lock onto mine from behind his spectacles, and _oh_. This is _definitely_ OK.

I bite my lip and widen my stance, watching as Harry’s hands grip the robes even tighter.

“Harry,” I say again, letting my voice drop a bit lower. “You can touch, you know.”

“Holy fuck, _Draco_.” Harry throws the robes on the small sofa and takes several steps forward before stopping suddenly. “Is this—did I forget a holiday? Or an anniversary?” He asks, looking concerned.

I roll my eyes at him. “No, you berk.”

“S-so,” he actually _stutters_ , something I’ve only heard him do a few times in all our years together. He clears his throat and tries again. “So this is just...for me?”

I nod and Harry’s smile turns into something almost feral. I can see the outline of his thickening cock through the material of his trousers and I smirk.

“Give me those knickers,” Harry demands, his voice gruff.

I frown, because I can’t actually get them off without taking the garter off, and if I take the garter off the stockings will fall. It’s a lingerie house of cards.

Harry seems to realise this, however, and he takes his wand from its holster and performs a complicated series of swishes and flicks. And I suddenly find myself without the panties, but with everything else intact.

I groan despite myself. Harry’s casual displays of complicated magic never cease to impress (and arouse) me. Single-item summoning spells like that shouldn’t work—the knickers should tear or pull me with them. But, Harry being Harry, they appear perfectly intact in his large, tanned hands.

(He once told me that, after defeating old Voldy, his relationship with magic had changed. He’d gained a new confidence, which translated to an increase in the power and ingenuity of his spells. “I can’t explain it, exactly,” he’d said, “but I just sort of know I can do it. I imagine what I’m going to do, and, uh… it happens.”

So of course I, ever the prat, had told him that if he was trying to convince me that his prowess in magic was simply the result of positive thinking, I’d deck him.)

Harry is close enough to me that he could reach out and touch me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he undoes his belt and shoves his pants and trousers down just enough to get his cock out, and starts to stroke himself using the knickers.

The dark lace runs up and down his flushed cock, and I am _entranced_. Harry has never touched himself like this in front of me. I mean to say that yes, he’ll stroke himself off while I’m fucking him, but he’s never just whipped it out and starting wanking. I go from half-hard to fully erect so quickly that I’m surprised I don’t faint from the blood rushing south.

“Oh, God, you look so gorgeous like this, Draco. Turn around, let me see all of you.”

I turn slowly and fold myself over the desk so that my arse is in the air. I glance behind my shoulder and see that Harry is looking at me with something akin to reverence. I wiggle my bum in invitation.

“See something you like, Potter?”

I feel fingers trace the skin that’s bulging up around where the garter straps are pressing into the fleshy cheeks of my arse, and then Harry drops to his knees. He rubs his stubbled jaw against the sensitive skin at the inside of my thighs before trailing his fingertips down, causing my skin to break out into gooseflesh. He caresses my ankles and my calves, working his back way up my legs slowly, pausing to press kisses to random points as he goes.

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” Harry says, still positioned behind me.

“I’d do anything for you, Harry.” I used to hate how easily he drew these sorts of blunt, honest confessions from me, but I’ve made my peace with it. Besides, he’ll usually follow up my romantic and/or sickeningly loving comments with something equally sappy.

“You are so fucking perfect for me, love. Every time I think you can’t possibly know me any better than you do, you come up with some new way of surprising me. You know me better than I know myself.”

Case. In. Point.

I sigh, letting my head drop between my arms. “What do you want, Harry? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want me to suck your cock until you come all over this pretty lace?”

“I want you to ride me. Can we do that?”

I smirk and turn around, throwing my arms around his neck. “Have at me,” I tell him before I lean in and kiss him.

I could kiss Harry for hours. Days. Months. He kisses like his life depends on it; like if he doesn’t kiss me passionately and deeply then he’ll lose the privilege.

(He won’t.)

Harry quickly divests himself of his clothes while still managing to kiss me senseless. His hands can’t seem to stop moving across my arms and chest and shoulders. He drops his head to my neck and sucks kisses under my jaw while his fingers tease my nipples.

“Did you bring lube?”

“ _Did I bring lube_ ,” I mimic, tsking. I flail around behind me, patting the desk until my hand makes contact with the bottle, which I shove into his hands. “What do you take me for? A virgin?”

“Not since 1998,” he says cheekily.

“Yes, well done you,” I reply as he gently maneuvers me so I’m yet again leaning onto his desk on my forearms, arse in the air.

The peculiar feeling of a cleaning charm zings inside me, and before I can adjust I feel one of Harry’s long, lubed fingers breach me.

“Oh!” I arch my back into the sensation.

“Sorry love! Too fast?” He asks, stilling his hand.

“No! You know I like it a bit rough sometimes. Carry on.”

He chuckles and adds a second finger almost immediately. I let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan and fuck back onto Harry’s hand.

“You are the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen,” Harry whispers, draping himself over me. “Spread out for me, looking so pretty in your lace.”

I can feel the hair on his chest against my back as his fingers flex and stretch inside of me.

“Give me another, Harry, _please,_ ” I request quietly. Of the two of us, he is by far the more vocal in bed (or in office). I’ve often wondered what the hordes of witches who _still_ write me hate mail would say if they knew the sorts of things their Saviour says in the throes of passion.

He adds a third finger and scissors them, loosening me up for his thick cock.

“Are you ready, love?” he asks a few moments later, pulling his fingers out of me and reaching for the lube to wet his shaft.

I straighten up and spin around, pushing at his chest so that he backs up towards the sofa. “Sit,” I command, straddling his lap when he acquiesces. I reach behind me and hold his cock steady at the base while I sink down onto him slowly.

Harry clutches at my hips and runs his fingers along the garter belt and straps, holding my arse open for him. He throws his head back and swears when I’m flush against him. “Fuck. Don’t move for a second, OK?”

I can’t help but smirk, satisfied at my ability to (almost) make him come immediately.

He takes some deep breaths and then looks straight into my eyes. “OK, I’m good. Ride me, Draco.”

I rise up slowly until he almost slips out of me before slamming myself back down again. I repeat that move a few more times, relishing in the groans I’m eliciting from Harry. I’m done teasing, though; my own cock is throbbing and I shift my angle around, trying to find the spot that will make me see stars.

“Yes, yes, love, just like that! Oh Merlin you feel amazing. And look at you, fucking yourself on me while you’re wearing that. _You’re a dream_ , Draco.”

I clutch harder at his broad shoulders and let out a loud moan when he grabs me and starts thrusting up to meet my downstrokes, gritting his teeth.

“Take it, take my fat cock Draco. Fuck, yes, you love this, don’t you? You love riding me.”

“Yes, Merlin, please! Touch me. I’m close, please…” I know I’m whimpering but I can’t help it. My orgasm is building and I just need a little friction to push me over the edge.

Harry’s hand wraps around me and pumps and I’m coming within seconds, streaking Harry’s chest with white.

“God you’re gorgeous when you come,” he says, breathing heavily.

“How do you want to come, Harry?” I ask once I’ve recovered enough to express coherent thoughts.

He looks slightly sheepish, so I cup his jaw in my hands. “Harry Potter. There is very little you could say right now that I wouldn’t do for you.”

Harry holds my gaze but holds out his hand to the side, summoning the knickers that he’d abandoned earlier. He eases me down onto my back and kneels between my legs before he starts using the knickers to wank again.

“That’s so fucking hot,” I say honestly, watching him stroke his hard, wet cock with the black lace.

“I’m going to come all over you, Draco. I’m going to ruin this pretty lingerie with my spunk.”

I rub my silk-encased legs against his and moan. “Do it, Harry. Please, cover me with your come.”

He groans loudly and stills, shooting stripes of white onto the black garments.

Harry collapses more on top of me than next to me, given that there are two grown men trying to share a loveseat. We’re quiet for a while. I stroke his hair and he presses kisses to whatever parts of me he can reach.

After a few minutes his weight actually becomes quite uncomfortable and I have to sit up, breaking the peaceful silence in the office.

“Draco?” Harry asks quietly.

“Yes, Harry?” I respond, looking around for my wand to clean ourselves up with.

“Thank you, for this.”

I lean over and kiss him. “You’re welcome. And, you know, that was _incredibly_ hot. I think we’ll have to repeat this, although I’ll have to go shopping. I think these ones might be beyond saving.” I gesture to the come- and sweat-covered garter belt and stockings. “Do you want to talk about why you were afraid to bring up the lingerie thing in the past?”

Harry shrugs. “I guess I was just nervous that it was something you’d never do, or that you might be offended that I asked you to put on such feminine things.”

“I’ve dressed up as Celestina Warbeck for the past four Halloweens, Harry. Why would I be upset about putting on women’s garments?”

“It’s one thing to get drunk and fuck while you still happen to be wearing a dress, and quite another to ask you to wear very specific things so that I can get off.”

I roll my eyes. “You’ve dressed up in your Gryffindor quidditch gear for me on several occasions. How is that different?”

He shrugs.

“Look at me, Harry,” I try to put some authority into my voice. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy, you daft arse. I also enjoyed this exploration of your kink... I think we’re past the stage where I’d judge you for something you wanted to do in the bedroom, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” he replies.

I scoff. “I don’t suppose. I _know_. And I’m very wise. Did you know I have a Potions mastery?”

Harry laughs. “OK, OK. You’re right.”

I snort. “Of course I am.”

“Now, help me get these fucking shoes off. I think they might be welded to my feet at this point.”

Harry pulls at the heels roughly, falling backwards slightly when they come off of my feet.

“Love you, Harry,” I say as he massages my poor, abused toes. Sometimes he makes it so easy for me to forget about the wet towels left on the bathroom floor and the half-drunk cups of tea strewn about our home.

“Love you, Draco.” Harry runs his fingers over the lace at the top of my stockings. “Hell of a Tuesday night.”

I suppose that every now and then love can be fulfilling, compassionate, and remarkable (and kinky). And it can still be completely _absurd_.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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